She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. She packed her things, then ran a mile to Julian’s apartment. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. He moaned. You don’t want to look like Bozo. G. That’s how it takes me.
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